


It's all just transport (AKA 'I'm not ticklish')

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Tickling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes a discovery. Perhaps John should never have tried tickling Sherlock after all. Fluff..so much fluff...happy, happy feel good fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's all just transport (AKA 'I'm not ticklish')

"Sherlock, get your feet off me"

"No. You move."

"Sherlock… I was here first"

"It's my couch John."

"We've had this conversation before. We agreed that the couch was here when you moved in?"

"But I moved in first, therefore, it's mine."

"Just.....MOVE!" John pushed ineffectually at the enormous feet that had taken up residence in his lap, heels digging into his thigh. "Fine…Leave them there."

Sensing victory, Sherlock templed his hands under his chin and settled back to think about whatever it was had driven him to the couch.

With a dramatic show of straightening his newspaper, John returned to his reading with a huff. It wasn't so much the discomfort of the detective's feet, it was the baseless assumption Sherlock made that he could simply invade John's personal space without thought and certainly without permission; John’s laptop, John’s toiletries, and now apparently John’s lap.

The bottom edge of the newspaper brushed Sherlock’s foot and there was a reflexive twitch away. _Interesting_. John glanced down and repeated the accidental brush with similar results _Very interesting indeed_.

John put the paper down, selecting instead a smaller book entitled “Henley’s 20th century formulas, processes and trade secrets”. It was small enough to comfortably balance in one hand and John casually lowered the other to rest lightly on Sherlock’s ankle.

In a move that could plausibly be explained away as unconscious movement, John swept his thumb along the exposed skin between Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and naked foot, watching as it tensed in a slight but definite response. John again circled down and back to still again on the ankle, an idle movement seemingly while deep in thought. There was a curl of the toe and a slight twitch in the knee on the same leg. John glanced at his flatmate, the eyes remained closed, but there was perhaps a slight tightening around the corners of the mouth, and the breathing was definitely heavier. _Hard to tell, this is Sherlock after all_.

“John?” The rich voice held a note of warning together with the question.

“Mmmmm?”

“Stop tickling my foot. I’m trying to think.”

“I would have thought that ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’ would have been immune to such insignificant distractions.

The eyes at the other end of the couch opened slowly and with a penetrating glare Sherlock gave his best ‘I’m going to dominate you through wordless force of will’ stare. The lids slowly closed again and with a sigh, Sherlock returned to thoughtful contemplation.

 _Right then. I’m having none of that. ROUND TWO_.

John dramatically reached up to stretch an arm overhead, giving a theatrical yawn before bringing it back down to rest on the bridge of Sherlock’s foot, thumb hanging along the instep. Pausing briefly for maximum effect John took a deep breath and dragged his thumbnail up Sherlock’s instep.

The reaction was immediate, there was a hiss, a violent shudder and the foot rose two or three inches in the air at the end of the endless leg, reflexively wriggling and twitching. John smirked, well pleased with the response.

“Damnit John! I’m trying to THINK!”

“Then…” John repeated slowly and with a note of authority, “Move. Your. Foot!”

Sherlock had propped himself up, elbows awkwardly pressed behind him on the couch. Immovable object battled irresistible force for long moments as Sherlock’s tight-lipped scowl challenged John’s steely-eyed stare and barely hidden smirk, both refusing to give ground. Sherlock’s eyes made the message quite clear _Do your worst_ and the legs lowered back, crossing his ankles, and digging in a heel more forcefully for good measure before leaning back onto the cushion and resuming his thinking pose.

 _Oh…._ thought John _the game is most certainly…ON_!

An amateur would have resumed the attack immediately but John was a seasoned fighter, well-versed in subtlety and the waiting game. As a result, nearly an hour passed before John’s next move. _This is chess, not ten-pin bowling_. It was clear by this point that his flatmate was ticklish, a fact that John suspected Sherlock would find both frustrating and possibly somewhat embarrassing given his determined ‘It’s all just transport’ stance.

John inched his hand toward Sherlock’s leg again, each move barely an inch and accompanied every time by a glance at his flatmate, checking for changes in facial expression. He was reasonably sure that Sherlock was aware of the progress, even with his eyes closed. There was something vaguely super-human about the detective’s powers of observation, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Sherlock actually had the power to see through his own eyelids, even while in his damned mind palace. When he’d finally managed to inch a hand onto his own thigh and his fingers hovered over the exposed skin of Sherlock’s foot again John simply…..stopped. Hand hanging barely a fingers breadth from the skin, John simply paused…and waited…and watched for a reaction.

There was a twitch in Sherlock’s jaw, then another followed by a crease of the forehead. John sat silently, hand still above the pale skin….and continued to wait.

Suddenly, Sherlock exploded in a flurry of movement, jerking his legs away from John to rub his shins and ankles roughly while glaring at his friend.

John dissolved into laughter, watching as Sherlock tried and failed to sooth hyper-sensitive nerve endings.

“I told you to stop tickling me.” Sherlock was well on the way to a proper strop now, and John knew he’d need to tread carefully, but was having too much fun to back down.

“I wasn’t touching you.” John opened his hands beatifically, his look of innocence ruined by childish giggles.

“No….It was worse, you were……ALMOST touching me. The suspense was infuriating.” Sherlock was now curled at the other end of the couch, hands protectively clasped around his shins, glaring sullenly at his flatmate.

“Oh NO!” John waved his hands theatrically, enjoying the drama in front of him, “The nasty man ALMOST touched me….someone call Inspector Lestrade, I want to press charges.”

Sherlock continued to glare. John relented.

“Oh, come on Sherlock, relax, everyone’s ticklish.”

“You’re not.” Sherlock muttered between clenched teeth.

“I am... I just don’t put myself in the position to…..” John trailed off as he realised what he’d admitted as the detective’s eyes narrowed in consideration, “….On second thought, forget that. I’m NOT ticklish either.”

“Really…..?” Sherlock’s eyes had taken on a disturbingly predatory look that John didn’t like at all.

Unfolding himself from the other end of the sofa _"like some enormous spider"_ John thought, Sherlock approached along the couch on hands and knees, and John had the uncomfortable feeling that the predator _John_ had suddenly become the prey _also rather unfortunately...John._

Sherlock loomed over John, eyes narrowed and drawled a second time, "Reeaaalllyyyy..."

John backed into the corner of the sofa, and tried to feign disinterest, "Nope..not at all. Not even worth trying actually." He crossed his arms protectively across his chest and silently willed himself to wake up from what was becoming something of a nightmare.

Sherlock, when on the scent of a mystery could be a magnificent creature. Blazing intellect coupled with ratiocinitive powers unmatched except perhaps by his brother Mycroft, was a sight to behold. However, at the moment John's usual awe of the detective was somewhat overshadowed by horror at being, for the first time, reduced to the subject under the microscope. He felt exposed and vulnerable and not at all safe in his own flat.

Somebody whimpered, it echoed in the silence of the flat _Oh God, that was me wasn't it?_ John tried for levity, "Ok Sherlock, you win. No more tickling your feet. It was cruel..and unfair....and.."John's voice trailed off weakly as Sherlock's head tilted slightly in a faintly disturbing way,"....Sherlock?"

"Mmmmm?" Sherlock rolled his shoulders with a feline grace and John's mind was flooded with images of big cats leaping and savaging prey.

John gave up all pretence of bluff and squeaked in a small voice, "Please don't kill me, Sherlock."

Sherlock pounced, as John knew he would, giving the smaller man little time to react with more than practiced defensive movements. In a fluid movement, John took the momentum of the oncoming charge and redirected the move to a roll that left the detective face down on the sofa and John crouched on the floor, ready for the next assault.

"Sherlock..." John held hands up in supplication.

Sherlock's head turned from the pillow, "Nice move John..but it won't save you." A smile broke across the taller man's face.

John grinned back, more at ease with his feet under him and the room to manoeuvre within. From his crouched position, he beckoned to the man on the couch, daring him to advance.

John saw the exact moment when the decision to attack crystallised in Sherlock's pale eyes. Years of working and fighting beside the detective had built an instinctive understanding between them that often removed the need for words and John watched as tension built in arms and legs before Sherlock sprung in one fluid movement toward John, heedless of the proximity of the coffee table.

Rather than see Sherlock suffer at the mercy of the inanimate coffee table by dodging, John opened his arms to the oncoming man, taking the weight against his chest and rolling them both away, rolling to pin Sherlock beneath him.

"Sherlock..stop." The detective struggled beneath him.

"Sherlock!....You'll hurt yourself, just stop." The struggling slowed, arms relaxing in John's grip. John took a deep breath and released the pinned wrists before yelping in surprise as Sherlock suddenly rolled them over and sunk fingers into John's side, unerringly finding sensitive pressure points.

"Bloody hell!" John twitched and wriggled as Sherlock continued his assault, mercilessly seeking out sensitive points in waist, elbows and neck. Where John's tickling had been a subtle and delicate dance of fingers on skin, Sherlock's was a calculated and remorseless invasion which nonetheless left John helpless and giggling, tears stinging his eyes as he gasped for breath.

A reflexive elbow to Sherlock's chin caused a pause in proceedings as both stilled for a moment in shock before Sherlock let out a rare and unreserved laugh and dived back in, his deeper baritone chuckles joining John's more breath-starved hiccupping snorts.

At some point, a fitful kick dislodged a glass from the coffee table sending it to the floor with a crash. That was the noise that finally brought Mrs Hudson, concerned that perhaps the fight was more serious than the usual at 221B, upstairs to stand in the doorway. For long minutes, unobserved, she watched the two grown men grapple like schoolboys on the Oriental rug. Content that the carefree grins, stifled grunts and unashamed laughter meant all was well, she closed the door quietly and left her boys to their evening's entertainment.


End file.
